


Just a boy in a Locker

by mpmottley



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mpmottley/pseuds/mpmottley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch- just before he must mentor The Games for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a boy in a Locker

**Author's Note:**

> BEta'd by hidden-under-the-desk on tumblr. Based off of a headcanon from adumbrare on tumblr.

Haymitch sometimes wished he hadn’t won the Hunger Games. Well, he really wished he was never drawn out in the first place, but that wasn’t really within his control. With every fibre of his being he wished Maysilee wasn’t dead. He should never have made finds with her. He tried to strip himself of that tie once he entered the arena but, once again, the odds weren't in his favour. He wished he hadn’t even gone to the edge of the arena in the first place, but he had. He wished that his intelligence had worked in his favour, instead of leaving him inquisitive. He wishes he’d had enough foresight to not use the barrier as a weapon, but it saved his life.

  
It didn’t save Peat, his little brother, or his mother, or even Amber, who he hadn’t even gotten to kiss yet. At night, the house he’d had no choice but to take seemed cavernous and hollow. During the day he did his best not to be there. He’d go to Asher’s and follow him to the square so he could gawk at the Apothecary’s daughter. Or he’d go to the hob and buy knick-knacks from the merchants who starved if not for his business (he had a trunk full of useless trinkets by the fireplace now). He never said much any more. Sometimes he so rarely talked that he wondered if he even could any more and when he did the sound his voice would almost surprise him. The victory tour had seemed like torture— the speeches that were too long and too tedious that he had no choice but to recite for the capitol.

  
From time to time he’d drink but the merchants in the hob restricted how much they gave him and how often as they still saw him as a child. He argued vehemently with them on especially bad days, pointing out just how badly they needed him to buy from them - much more than they needed to keep watch over the poor boy who’d won the games by pure chance. For a while he did work on his talent. He’d learned to play the piano in school on the unturned dilapidated instrument that nobody used since they stop teaching any kind of arts. There was a piano in his house though, and he’d gotten quite good at it. His appreciation for it became tainted when he started to associate it with the capitol and the games.

  
The morning of the reaping for the 51st hunger games he hid in the cellar, hoping childishly that nobody would find him. He crept in the dark and climbed into the food storage locker which never actually had anything in it. He fit easily inside considering he was of average height but his malnourished frame hadn’t improved much since the year before. He attempted to relax himself to but found it impossible. If they found him he’d have to look at two kids, perhaps older than himself, and somehow teach them how not to die, and he really didn't think he could do that. However if they didn't find him he’d have to come out eventually and they would still find him and who knew what they would do then?

  
The thoughts of being found gnawed at him and made him incredibly anxious. The façade of indifference he’d adopted since his reaping was shattered. Now, he was just a boy hiding in a metal locker, weeping. Attempts to calm himself with deep breaths escalated to hyperventilating. He fought his way out of the locker and curled up on the floor, shaking. The sensible side of him screamed for to get up and get it together, to not let them see him like this, to be stronger than this. The footsteps on the stairs startled him and helped to ground him. He sat up, furiously wiping the tears off his face and clenching his jaw. He could do this, he had to do this.

  
“Haymitch?” It was Valens (“Call me Val”) the District 12 escort. He wasn’t very old, and was very handsome by most standards with a square jaw and practically crystalline eyes. He was nice too very compassionate. He treated Haymitch like a younger brother most of the time and Haymitch was grateful because he seemed to be genuine. Val walked over to Haymitch and offered a hand to help him up. Haymitch took it and was easily pulled up. He brushed off the seat of his pants and forced a terse smile,

  
“I'm gonna go get dressed.” He practically whispered and turned to leave but Val grabbed his arm to stop him.

  
“I'm here to help you in any way I can, Haymitch.”

  
“It’s too late to help me.” Haymitch scowled and pulled himself free, hastening up the stairs.


End file.
